Kelpie
by Kate Christie
Summary: "She knew she must have painted quite the picture—hair plastered to her head, saturated tendrils trailing over her shoulders, skin flushed from the heat, cheeks flushed from anger, and all of her slick and dripping." Kelpie-A Celtic water sprite appearing as a maiden with dripping hair, known for luring men into the water to drown.
1. Chapter 1

**Kelpie: Akin to mermaids, naiads, and selkies, a Celtic water sprite who takes the form of a maiden with dripping hair, or a horse with a dripping mane. Known for luring unsuspecting men into the water to drown. See "The Kelpie" by Harold James Draper.**

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"**In the details lie the heart." From "New Year's Day," **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, Mary Chapin Carpenter, 2012, Rounder Records. No copyright infringement intended.**

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Castle tapped the spoon against the edge of the bubbling stockpot and replaced the lid. Another half an hour and the flavors would come together nicely.

After setting the salad in the fridge, he opened the bottle of Pinot Noir he had pulled from the wine room a few minutes earlier.

A flash of lightening lit up the otherwise gray windows, followed closely by a clap of thunder. The rain was really coming down outside.

He had headed home while Kate stayed behind to finish paperwork, promising her comfort food to finish off the interminable week, and hopefully to set the tone for their weekend off, snuggling in at the loft.

She did that now, spent whole weekends with him when she had them off. It was unnerving sometimes to think about how quickly he'd become used to it, considered their time together a foregone conclusion.

Who was he kidding? He was addicted to her from the moment she'd said she wanted him. Addicted to her body, well obviously, but more to her… warmth.

That was one aspect of Kate that had been elusive before—seen in glimpses with families of victims, felt at a distance, when she didn't mean for it to be noticed, seen directly only once or twice, in a bank vault or on his own couch while listening to his mother's version of her life story.

But once Kate had let him love her, a door opened wide. It was as if the space he knew he already occupied in her heart expanded. She'd let him wander the rooms, put his feet up, get comfortable.

And then the warmth just flowed out, surrounded him. Even before she'd been able to say the words aloud, he could feel her love in those warm waves—tender touches, a hand clasped and then held rather than released, time she spent learning when to give him space to write and exactly the right times and ways to distract him from it.

She'd found his soap and shampoo and shaving cream to stock in her bathroom. She knew exactly how he liked his eggs, though she still refused to make him a smorelet.

He had always been observant. It was his job at first, writing her character, but then it had become a personal mission—knowing what made her smile, what made her relax when she was stressed, that she liked the spring rolls at China Garden but only the egg rolls from Kwan's.

And then she let him in, and all her detective skills were suddenly and thoroughly unleashed on him in a steady effort to know everything about him that she could possibly absorb.

It was her single-minded dedication to learning all the little aspects of his life that he had already memorized about hers that made him realize she wasn't leaving.

This was for real. This was worth her time.

He was startled out of his musings by three sharp raps on the door.

He wiped his hands and crossed the loft with no clue what normal person would casually stop by in a rainstorm on a Friday night. He swung open the door to find his muse.

"Kate! Why didn't you use your key?"

She was wet-hair dripping and frizzed, sweater molded to her skin.

And she was smiling at him with this shy, knowing little grin, waiting for his brain to catch up and answer his own question.

Lighting flashed through the windows, followed immediately by a clap of thunder, and it hit him.

"Oh… Oh."

And then he didn't care that it wasn't exactly how it happened six months ago, he reached for her hand and pulled her through the door and didn't stop until she was plastered to his chest. His lips were on hers and his tongue had already parted them when he heard her bag and unused jacket and umbrella hit the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

His mind was reliving that night, the first time, that frenzy of lust and love and insanity, but this time without the fear that she might be using him for information on her mother's case, or that she might leave before dawn without a word.

He bent to reach for her thighs, and she caught on, latched her arms around his shoulders and hauled herself up as he lifted. She was wrapped around him, and this certainly hadn't happened at the front door that night, but it was the thought that counted in this little reenactment.

He backed her up against the door to shut it, but reached out to turn the lock this time, balancing her weight with one arm and the force of his hips pinning her against the door.

He tried to convince himself to let up on her mouth long enough to make it to the bed.

And this time they would make it to the bed.

He might never forgive himself for making love with her that first time on the floor of his office, because she'd pulled him in for another kiss and they just couldn't keep their hands off each other and then they were pulling off clothes and sinking down and it had been the most glorious experience of lovemaking in his whole life.

And later they had made it to the bed. And the shower. And the counter in his bathroom.

He hadn't been able to see the bruises in the darkness, but when he'd found them eventually, he couldn't help the wash of guilt, even if she had been the one pressing him into the floor.

No, this time they were going to get horizontal in their warm, soft, satin-sheeted bed on the first try.

To facilitate, he gentled their kiss, causing her to moan at the loss of contact, but God there were so many reasons tonight was better; for one, he already knew where that spot was just behind her ear that would distract her all the way to his bedroom. As he tasted it with his tongue, she gasped his name.

When his feet crossed the threshold into the bedroom, he counted it as a victory that he had kept his balance despite her lips and what they were doing to his earlobe.

Her legs relaxed their grip around his waist and he let her down next to the bed, where she proceeded to divest him of his button-down and t-shirt. She smiled wickedly as she unzipped his jeans, pressing her palm against him through his boxers.

Trying to keep up with her frantic pace, he started on her drenched and dripping clothes, tugging the sweater over her head and dropping it to the floor with a plop, unbuttoning her slacks. Oh, wet dress pants were so much easier than those damn jeans had been. He thought he was going to combust that night, trying to drag that soaking, clinging denim down her legs. Now, these pants pooled at her feet with no struggle.

Nearly naked, she reached for him, pulled his lips down to hers, pressed a soft kiss against them.

He swept her up in a tight embrace, feet off the floor, spun her to the bed, laid her down, covered her with his body. Her skin was freezing—November rain was colder than May.

"Jesus, Kate, you're going to catch pneumonia."

She chuckled at him as he ran his hands over her arms, trying to infuse some heat.

"Not when I've got you to keep me warm."

"Oh, you've got me, alright. Not getting rid of me, either."

Placing a tiny kiss on the tip of her nose, he tugged down the covers and rolled them toward the pillows.

Once they had scrambled under the sheet and down comforter, encased themselves in their soft cocoon, flipped positions, he ran his hands up her back, pulled her chest into his.

"If you're going to start walking home in every thunderstorm, I'm going to have to get flannel sheets for this bed."

Wet tendrils of hair glistened, surrounded his face as she hovered, eyes bright.

"So you have a problem with my moment of nostalgia?"

In a well-practiced move, he unhooked her bra and she rose up to let him shimmy the straps down her arms.

"Oh, you can come home soaking wet in Beckett-attack-mode any time you want to. I'm just trying to be prepared, in case it happens in February."

"It would be snow in February."

He had snagged his thumbs in her underwear and was sitting up to push them down as he answered.

"Okay, fine, I'll just be forced to get you naked and use body heat every time."

Her never-ending legs snaked out of the offending garment and her hands found and tugged off his boxers.

"It's worked for us so far."

The row of tiny kisses she planted down his sternum forced him to suck in a breath just as she veered off to tongue his nipple to attention.

Her path downward, beneath the covers, continued with a slippery dip into his navel, a trail of hot breath along the line of dark hair below it.

He gasped as she nibbled at his inner thigh, prompting her to repeat the move on the opposite side.

As she shifted across, strands of her still-damp hair brushed silkily over his obvious and now almost painful arousal.

She was going to kill him. Oh, but it would be a blissful demise.

With her out of sight, he had no idea what part of him she might target next, and every nerve ending stood at attention in anticipation. It was at once unnerving and highly erotic.

A puff of warmth teased him, and then heat, liquid and unrelenting, descended upon his over-sensitized flesh. The breath he had held escaped in a sharp cry, half curse and half her name.

His hands instinctively twined into her hair, fingertips brushed her scalp gently, brain resisted his body's urge to direct her movements.

She needed no direction—this was his favorite form of torture, and he was satisfied with her being completely in control.

Her tongue swirled over and around him as she wrapped her fingers around his base. Lips and tongue and teeth slid down, took more of him into the exquisite heat of her mouth. Her other hand cupped him, and he couldn't help the jerk of his hips toward her as her lips slid up his length and then took him deeper.

She knew just how far she could push, just how much contact, friction, suction would take him to the edge but not over it. His world had contracted to this bed, to the searing wetness of her mouth, the slide and grip of her fingers, the press of her tongue.

Every muscle tensed trying to maintain the focus required to hold himself at this precipice. When he thought the pleasure would drown him, he hissed out her name, gripped her head between his hands, guided her up.

She separated from him with an audible pop, feathered her hands over his length in one last caress, and slid slowly up his body, appearing from under the covers like a goddess, a siren, hair flowing wild, lips pink and swollen. Her eyes found his, looking dark and deep and ready to devour him whole.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take, needed to just have a moment to breathe, settle himself.

But instantly she was over him, and with her hair and her eyes and her skin and her lips he just wanted to be inside her. If his life depended on it, he couldn't tell her to stop now.

She was settling her hips over his and sliding along his length with a single-minded mission of possession. He felt her slick folds coating him with moisture—it still amazed him how aroused she could be just from the act of pleasuring him.

She had admitted to him months ago that it was all anticipation. She knew he was in this as much for her as for himself. There was a give and take, an understanding and a communion between them that he'd never experienced before. No scorecard, no tally on the bedpost, just sharing and loving and beautiful, mutual rapture.

Laid out over his chest, ankles wrapped behind his calves, elbows framing his face, she aligned herself with him and sank slowly, enveloping him, forcing the air from his lungs and the conscious thought from his brain.

When her hips met his, smoothly and snugly tucking her against him, then stilled completely, he knew he need not have worried about his restraint. Meeting his eyes, she began to rock gently against him. He reached for her, brought her to his mouth and kissed her, tangled his tongue with hers as she moved.

This pace and this angle and the delicious feeling of being surrounded by her would keep him in the game for as long as she wanted. The lack of friction, the subtlety of movement, let him focus on her and staved off his need for release. His fingers traced down her shoulders, over her ribs, finally found purchase at the flare of her hips where they could encourage the tight circles she pressed into him.

Very early in their relationship, he'd learned if he could keep going, so could she. Repeatedly.

He'd never been with a woman who could find that perfect rhythm and let herself go, no restraint, no self-conscious apologies. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

In no time, she was building up, losing her focus a bit, letting their kiss become a meeting of lips over shared breath. A whimper escaped into his mouth as her steadiness faltered, his cue to help her crest that first wave.

As her back curled and stiffened, he began to thrust up into her, keeping her same pace but increasing the force and friction where they were joined.

She cried out, found his eyes, held, breathless, and finally—completely—shattered around him.

He stilled, eased her down from her climax, let her tuck her nose against his neck, stroked his warm palms over the bare and now damp skin of her back. As her breathing slowed, though, he pressed his hips up against her, elicited a gasp, felt her shift into him once again.

Yeah, she wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot.

Pressing her hands to his chest and drawing her knees up, she rose to straddle him, still joined.

She leaned back slightly, rested her hands behind her on his thighs, which he knew increased the pressure on the sweet spot on her front wall. She was enthralling with this intensity, directed solely at finding pleasure with him. Even now he couldn't fathom why she directed all her energy, her love, her devotion to him and what they had built. He didn't think he was worthy, but she obviously did, and he wasn't going to argue.

His fingers explored where they were joined, dipped into her moisture, then slicked up and over her clit. He knew that she was verging on over-stimulation, but he knew gentle pressure on her bundle of nerves, the lightest friction to match her movements, could start her climb back up toward release.

When he had it just right, she would let out this little breathy noise from the back of her throat. Oh, that noise could almost send him over the edge all on its own, and he needed to hear it from her now so desperately.

He loved her wanton and wild—could no longer see her without also seeing this mythical creature, this goddess, this woman who loved him—emotionally, spiritually, physically.

Her back arched, bowed back further as she began to lose herself in the moment. He switched his point of contact with her body from his fingers to his thumb, swirled over her as she increased her pace, and there it was—that perfect little throaty moan.

"Oh, Rick!"

She was nearly there, and he curled up to be closer to her, anchor her to him through her bliss.

One hand spread over her back, slid around her waist, leveraged her against him with the band of his forearm. The other, now trapped between their bodies, continued to build her up toward her peak, relentless in its thorough, gentle assault.

She was utterly gorgeous, teetering on this edge with a flush overtaking her chest and cheeks, eyes dark, lips parted, tongue flicking out to moisten them through her fluttering breaths.

"Can you go with me? Please."

They had other nights for a marathon. He smiled into a kiss at her jaw line.

"I guess I'll let you twist my arm…"

She bumped her nose against his forehead and huffed.

"How dare I inflict such a tiresome scourge upon your evening?"

"God, I love it when you're bookish in bed."

Her knowing chuckle told him she'd been planning that line all day.

Her arms came around his shoulders and pulled him with her as she untangled her legs and laid back, head toward the foot of the bed. Their hips parted and he slipped out of her, unfolding his own legs behind him and pinning her to the bed with the weight of his hips.

She cried out as he entered her with one firm, fast stroke. Though he'd become an expert at gauging her responses, he couldn't be sure this time if the cry was of pleasure or pain. He'd been rough in his enthusiasm, and his gut twisted thinking he'd hurt her. A quick glance in her eyes revealed only lust, love, trust and a mirror of his own impatience, and he felt the tension drain from his limbs.

Weight on his elbows, he set a steady pace, which she met thrust for thrust.

With each stroke, he could feel her inner muscles clench in counterpoint, gripping him fiercely, nudging him toward desperation. She tipped her hips forward, bringing herself into better contact with his pelvis as he bottomed out against her. That shift in position seemed to let something loose inside her, spurring little chants of "oh" interspersed with curses and what might have been his name to tumble from her lips with every movement of their bodies.

He was close, but she was closer. He sped up his efforts, pumping hot and hard inside her, her cries escalating in pitch and volume until she finally called out a strangled "yes" and opened her eyes to let him watch the waves overtake her.

One clutch of her climax around him and he could feel the tingle of his own orgasm ignite at the base of his spine. He let go of all his careful control and let her take him under, gasping her name as he spilled inside her.

He leaned down to take her lips, swallow her hums of contentment with each aftershock.

As his heart rate slowed, he tipped his forehead against hers, breathed out against her flushed cheek.

"I love you."

Though her smile in return was genuine, she had tears in her eyes when she replied.

"Do you know how much I love you? Really, do you understand how deep it runs, every day?"

He saw, then, that this was more than just a sentimental trek through a rainstorm. Something was up. Before he answered her question, he separated from her, lamenting the loss of contact, and rolled to her side to take his weight on one elbow, propping his head on his hand. Covers forgotten in a heap underneath them, she was completely bare as she mirrored his pose. He could tell she was baring more than skin right now, but he needed to know why.

"I only understand because it's the same for me. Has been for a long time."

He stroked a finger over the curve of her shoulder, kept his eyes on hers.

"Where is this coming from? What happened after I left today that has you doubting us?"

Her voice was quiet but indignant when she answered.

"I would never doubt you. I'm doubting me, whether I tell you enough, show you enough."

He knew there was more. Knew if he waited, it would come out eventually. Silence was the greatest tool he'd mastered in learning how to be with Kate.

"Remember the boyfriend?"

"The guy we interviewed on Wednesday?" She nodded, focused on his fingers where they stroked her skin.

"He walked in as I was about to get on the elevator. Asked me if he could have Leah's journal. I told him the D. A. would probably release it next week, since they hadn't found anything in it pertinent to her murder. Told him it would go to her parents, though, and he'd have to ask them."

Her eyes were still avoiding him, now fixed on a spot on the comforter that she was worrying with one finger.

"He looked so sad, and I knew it wasn't my place, but the way his face fell, I couldn't help asking why he wanted it. He seemed so relieved that I had. Told me he knew Leah loved him, but there was so much he didn't know. He wanted to see what she was really thinking—about him, about them. Where they were going. If they had a future. She hadn't wanted to talk about it, he hadn't pushed, and he hoped maybe she'd written something, since he knew she wrote every day."

She looked up at him, then, eyes swimming but not yet overflowing.

"He needed closure. Wanted to know if he'd read her right. If the ring he'd bought was the right thing."

He didn't prompt her, didn't offer comfort or consolation, just kept up the light touch against her shoulder, let her decide when to voice it.

"I don't talk about those things with you. I know you want to, but I…." It was as though her voice deflated before the end of that thought. She couldn't resurrect it, so she moved on.

"And then with the job, I'm way more likely than Leah, the kindergarten teacher, to not come home one night. I was picturing you, as close as we've gotten, having to ask yourself those questions. I don't want you to have to ask."

Her long blink only pushed the tears out and down her cheeks. Before she could swipe at them with her own fingers, he moved in to kiss first one, and then the other away. When she opened her eyes, he was still so close she couldn't fully focus. Pressing his nose against hers, he finally answered.

"You show me how much you love me every single day. And you tell me. I don't think you would have walked through the rain and showed up on my doorstep—either time—unless you wanted to be with me."

She backed off now, made herself focus, placed a warm, open palm on his chest.

"But I don't just love you. And I don't just want to be with you. I want to stay with you. I want to keep loving you." She sniffed quietly, wet her lips, shook her head slowly, took a breath.

"I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but you need to know that I'm anchoring myself in whatever version of forever you can write for us. And I don't know what it is, but I'm already there."

The sting of tears surprised him, gave him no warning before streaming down. There was nothing he could do but reach for her, pull her against him and cling for dear life.

For their life, together.

His lungs wouldn't fill—they were clenched tight around his heart.

He had known.

He tried to convince himself, despite the knot in his chest and the clench in his gut, that if she hadn't come home tonight, he wouldn't have sought reassurance from her father, from Lanie, from Ryan and Esposito.

But he was a writer; words held sway in his consciousness and his heart. And he couldn't deny that at this moment, her words meant more than he could adequately express, maybe more than they ought.

She wrapped herself around him, hugged him so tightly he might have bruises. He didn't care. If he could have absorbed her under his skin, she wouldn't have been close enough at that moment. He would gladly submerge in this wave of love and rightness.

When his lungs finally began to cooperate, let in air and let out something other than strangled half-sobs, he spoke carefully, resolutely, into her hair.

"Kate, we're going to have to write forever together, because without you, I don't know how."

Tumblr: KathrynChristie

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Visit to see the finalists for the Castle Fan Awards, and you'll see "Enlightenment" under the Fanfic: Romance category, along with some other fabulous stories. I'm so honored to be nominated with that crowd!

One last thing—go find Mary Chapin Carpenter's new album on iTunes, _Ashes and Roses_. I believe both of my favorite characters are looking for what she sings about.


	2. Chapter 2

**Kelpie Chapter 2**

**To Cartographical, for complaining so loudly, and threatening me with bodily harm, and generally making me feel wanted. Slightly scared for my life, but wanted nonetheless. And to Liv, who was nearly as impatient, and almost as vocal, though somehow managed to be much less menacing about it. Thanks, my friends. Long set-up, but hopefully a payoff that will make the time investment worthwhile. **

**# * # * # * #**

"Castle!"

Rick didn't even slow down at her call. If anything, he picked up speed as he closed the distance between himself and their suspect, a tall man in a hooded jogging suit who was skirting the edge of the pond near the southern border of Central Park.

She took off after him at a sprint, resigned to the fact that this was not going to end well, and speaking into her headset to alert her team.

"Guys, we have a runner. Headed toward your exit, Espo."

This guy was no tourist—he'd knifed three young, healthy men in as many days, filleted them right here in the park during broad daylight, miraculously without witnesses.

She and Castle had been waiting two hours for him after an anonymous tip suggested he would be circling the pond at four. Their original plan had been reconnaissance and a controlled confrontation as he left the park to take him in for questioning. Ryan and Esposito were positioned in a van at the closest park exit, and officers in unmarked sedans covered several others nearby, while well-placed plain-clothes back-up stood off in the surrounding trees.

At no point had anyone suggested antagonizing the suspect, for example by chasing him down well inside the park where civilians would be in harm's way.

At a curve in the stone walkway, their murderer must have hit a patch of ice with his sneaker, because he lurched off balance slightly, giving her partner enough of an edge to catch up and get his arms around the man's waist. Unfortunately, Castle's momentum was too much for the lanky, somewhat top-heavy perp, and it carried them both headlong over the edge of the walkway and into the freezing water.

They landed with a splash and a sharp cry—from the suspect or Rick she couldn't be sure. Kate's gut clenched, eyes hazed to tunnel vision around their struggling forms in the water. Castle would be no match for this man and the large hunting knife Lanie had identified as his weapon of choice.

She didn't even remember covering the last few yards from her spot in the trees.

When she reached the edge of the pathway closest to their launch point, she saw the man shove back his hood and spatter out a volley of watery coughs. At that point, it became obvious that this man was not their suspect.

Her adrenaline began to drain, its sudden and unexpected absence leaving her vaguely dizzy. Bending forward, hands on her knees, ostensibly to catch her breath, she watched with a flood of relief as Castle stood and spluttered as well.

Their non-perp was making his way to the edge of the pool when he opened up with a shout.

"Holy crap, what is this? Are they remaking 'Jackass'?"

He turned back to Rick, arms flung out, palms up. She couldn't be sure, but she was reading this guy's reaction to being flung into a Central Park water feature in February as… somewhat positive. She spoke into her headset again, trying to hide the desperation and ragged breathing.

"Never mind, guys. Not him. Stand down."

Rick obviously hadn't gotten that positive vibe, but he had apparently come to the same conclusion as she—not their guy. He faced the dripping runner with his hands held up in surrender.

"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. I'm with the NYPD, and we were waiting for a guy, a murder suspect, and you looked like him with the hoodie, and the running shoes, and…"

Drenched jogger was sort of aimlessly turning circles as he made his way to the walkway. On his second turn, he finally noticed Kate standing on the sidewalk and gave her an impressively thorough and heated visual appraisal for someone recently doused in freezing water. A giant grin broke over his face and he took a few last lurching steps to the stone path.

"You're a cop? Awesome."

She spoke into the headset again.

"Guys, this definitely isn't him. He's two hours late—no way he's gonna show now. Call everyone off. Let's regroup at the 12th."

Before she could come up with words to apologize for her partner's mistake, the soggy man was already up and out and sloshing in his shoes, continuing his enthusiastic monologue.

"You guys really thought I was that serial killer? Dude, I wish I had my iPhone. This'd totally trend on Twitter. I've gotta go update my Facebook status to 'murder suspect.'"

He was already slogging toward home, too far away for her to even take his name.

When he disappeared around a curve in the path, she turned on Rick, who was slowly wading toward her in his heavy wool overcoat.

"Remind me to tell Ralph Lauren that he needs to start a line of coats that don't weigh eighty pounds in the water."

Oh, yeah, great, Rick. Joke about almost drowning some innocent New Yorker. Gates could have his ass for this. Hell, if the poor guy had filed a complaint, Gate could have had her ass.

"Or maybe I should just remind you not to go diving into frozen ponds fully clothed, tackling joggers who are not our suspect!"

That might have been a tad shrill. He responded in kind.

"Why did he run if he wasn't guilty?"

Oh good lord. She threw her head back, looked up to the blanket of oppressive grayness overhead, huddling close and promising snow. Could he never default to the obvious explanation? She shook her head and gave him her best exasperated Beckett glare.

"Because he's a runner, Castle, he was in the park to run."

She planted her feet, reached down to give him a hand up. When she heaved upward on Castle's hand, her four-inch heel found a patch of ice apparently too tiny to be seen, but just large enough to hurl her face-first into the pond.

The shock of the cold hitting her full-on forced the air from her lungs. When she surfaced, icy slush sluicing down her cheeks, she couldn't draw breath—the cold clamped down on her diaphragm, suffocating her until she could force air in. Once she did, there was really only one thing to use it for.

"Shit!"

Kate Beckett did not curse on the job, but holy…

"Fuck! It's freezing in here! Why the hell haven't you gotten out yet?"

She immediately moved toward the path, disentangling the wire from her now-useless headset. She turned to look at Castle, who was pressing his lips tight to stop the smile in his eyes from reaching the rest of his face. Why the hell was he smiling?

She planted her hands, fingers already numb and tingeing toward blue, and hauled one knee up over the ledge. All the blood that had left her fingers was rushing to her flaming cheeks, fueling the red haze creeping in at the edges of her vision. How dare he find humor in this?

"Not funny, Castle. No part of this is even remotely amusing. Not the part about you tackling an innocent man into a frozen pond, not the part about me getting hypothermia."

Water was streaming from her brand new wool pants as she stormed toward the closest park exit that wouldn't involve her being seen by her team. Without even a backward glance at her partner, she waved off the small group of plain-clothes officers who had gathered at her first call for backup.

"Nothing to see, here. I'm calling everyone off."

She ducked into a tree-lined walk that would take her to Central Park South.

None of this was acceptable. Their suspect hadn't shown, her partner had behaved like a child, and if that guy hadn't been so inexplicably enamored by the situation, he could easily have filed assault charges on Rick and put her job in jeopardy.

Damn. She had ridden in the van with the boys and Castle.

She had already told them to leave, and they probably thought she was riding back with uniforms.

She would absolutely not have shown her half-drowned self to Ryan and Esposito anyway, and she certainly wasn't taking the subway drenched and freezing.

She needed a cab—a cab to take her back to her apartment, by herself.

She could not deal with him right now. The pulsing red haze was asserting itself, coming between her and her rational perception of reality. She knew when she was like this she needed solitude to just breathe.

"Hey! Hold up! Kate! Where are you going?"

She had covered the distance to the exit in no time, and was at the curb with her hand up by the time he caught her. Through the rush hour traffic, one yellow sedan with its light on crossed a lane to pull up beside her. She rounded on him as she pulled open the door.

"What the hell were you thinking, Castle? You could have hurt that guy, gotten written up, gotten me in trouble, and since when, exactly, did I tell you to start taking point chasing suspects?"

She knew she was yelling; she didn't care if the driver could hear. She ducked into the cab and didn't look back.

Through the slammed car door, she heard his voice, sharp with anger but laced with confusion and pain.

"Fine! Scream at me and then run away. Real mature, Detective!"

Over the last nine months, she could count on one hand the number of times he'd called her by her title when they weren't working at the precinct or being kinky in bed. It stung; he'd hit his target.

Her cab wove into the rush, drowning any more of his words in honking horns and screeching brakes.

Dropping her head into her hands, she fought the urge to vomit. Her vision was graying out, little flashes popping behind her lids when she gave in and closed her eyes. Shit. She knew she had overreacted—knew he was partially right. She was running. But she just couldn't handle the excuses right now. If she was around him, she knew she would say things she would regret.

If that had been their suspect, he would have gutted Rick right there in the water, and the love of her life would have been gone. Just like that. Stabbed to death before her eyes in Central Park.

She couldn't deal with those images.

Seeing the aftermath, the crime scene stills, the body in the morgue—that she might be able to handle, had handled once. But watching his life drain out of him, seeing him in pain, being completely impotent, useless, unable to change his fate? There was no way she could walk away from it a whole person. She had started to feel nearly whole again, thanks to him. His recklessness with his own life was intolerable, because now he was risking the bit of hers that she had managed to piece together as well.

Her eyes opened to find the floor mat below her feet, drenched with pooling pond water. Enough wallowing in what might have happened. It hadn't happened. And now she needed to get it together and do her job.

She needed to update Espo and Ryan, let them know that she'd be back to the precinct once she'd changed clothes. Reaching into her pocket, her fumbling, numb fingers found her phone, and she silently prayed it had somehow escaped being water-logged. No such luck. Blank screen, no response. She shoved the useless piece of glass and circuitry back into her pocket with a growl.

Fine. The boys would have to wait until she got home.

By the time she pulled up in front of her building, deep breathing and some concerted thought suppression had helped rein in most of the outward signs of her fury.

The cab driver didn't look happy at the limp and soaking bills she handed over, but hell, what did he expect with her dripping all over his back seat? And would it have killed him to turn the heat up? It was February, for God's sake.

Yeah, the inward signs of fury were still definitely there.

Her apartment wasn't much warmer than the cab. She kept the heat off most of the time, a testament to how few nights she had spent here lately.

Thermostat adjusted, she shed her jacket and hung it on a hallway peg. If she were at the loft, she would have draped it over the heated towel rack in his bathroom.

Damn it! She did not need to undermine her own indignant anger like this. What she did need was to put the man out of her mind.

After stripping in front of her dryer and tossing in everything that didn't require dry cleaning, she called Esposito.

"We had a look-alike, but it wasn't our guy. I'm making one quick stop and I'll be back."

"Don't bother, boss. Everything's on hold 'til morning anyway, waiting for judges' signatures or forensics. We're heading out. I'm taking another go at the three vics' financials tonight. You and Writer-Boy should go have a nice dinner and we'll see you in the morning."

Well, that wasn't happening tonight. And she was counting on the case to keep her mind off him.

"Are you sure? What about the phone records?"

She heard Ryan in the distance—Espo must have switched her to speaker.

"Got it under control. Goodnight Beckett!"

Esposito chimed back in, obviously the one holding the phone.

"If you come back, Gates will think we're slacking off. Seriously."

"Got a hot date, Esposito?"

She heard Ryan cough in an attempt to cover his guffaw.

"Let's just say I may have first dibs on the latest autopsy report."

Well, good to know they were on again as opposed to off. She couldn't keep track of her best friends' back-and-forth most days. She would have to find another way to distract herself.

"Fine, I'll let you off the hook this time. But I'll see you bright and early in the morning and I expect brilliant theories."

"Night boss. Tell Castle we say 'You're welcome.'"

She hung up the phone rather than acknowledge the last comment.

The furnace had kicked on, but she was still mostly freezing, standing naked in her office as the dryer tumbled. He had her head all muddled, heart twisting in her chest. She was still mad, but guilt was starting to seep in.

She hadn't even let him get a word in before she had disappeared.

As she stepped out into the living room to head for her shower, she heard a key turn in her lock.

Whatever feelings of remorse had begun to infiltrate her anger immediately evaporated.

What nerve! Yes, she'd given him a key, but she'd made it pretty clear he wasn't welcome here right now.

When the door opened and a still-dripping Castle trudged in, eyes down, toed off his shoes and hung his coat on the wall beside hers, she couldn't help thinking that he at least looked appropriately miserable.

Rick finally looked up, eyes widening at her state of undress. Nothing he hadn't seen before; she tried for aloof.

"You followed me."

"Yeah, I did."

Quiet, somewhat resigned. The venom from outside the cab had apparently dissipated. Well, she could do cool as well as he.

"I didn't exactly invite you in."

He moved further into her space, held up the key.

"Sure you did. Unless you'd like to rescind this invitation?"

She couldn't argue. Didn't want to escalate this to more than it already was.

"Fine, if you want to be here, be here. I'm taking a shower."

She had the room fairly well steamed by the time she stepped into her big claw-footed bathtub and slid the curtain around her.

Through the wall behind the tub, she heard her dryer shut off momentarily, the door open, then close, and then the whirring start again. Well, he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

She lathered her hair, scrubbing the remnants of pond water away, letting the scalding hot spray pour over her head. As she tipped her face back to rinse the suds from her eyes, she heard the clatter of the metal shower curtain rings slinging back.

Her eyes snapped open to find a very naked Castle stepping in at the opposite end of her tub.

"Excuse me? Did it sound like I wanted company earlier?"

"No, not really, but you only have one shower, and I'm still freezing, so hand me my shampoo." His voice conveyed a quiet determination that she couldn't fight. She didn't have the ammunition, with guilt warring against anger inside her head. "Besides, you didn't lock the door."

Damn it. That would have been smart.

She reached behind her and handed him the bottle of his fancy brand, then, seeing no other way to deal with him at this point, she stepped to the side to let him switch places, get into the stream of water.

The only problem with that maneuver was that a little bit too much of her naked, slippery skin came into contact with his hard chest and biceps for her to keep her focus.

Distraction with menial tasks seemed to be in order.

She reached for her conditioner and worked it in, piled her hair on top of her head.

"Rick, what are you doing here?"

He had wet his hair, lathered it with shampoo, was leaning back to rinse.

"I'm reminding you that you can't just run away from me."

Her stomach somersaulted at the calm, unhurried honesty. She had expected something flip. Some comment about make-up shower sex. But as he rinsed the suds from his eyes, swiped his hand across to clear the water away, opened them, she could see he was serious.

He handed her body wash and she squeezed a dollop on to her shower pouf, sudsing it before passing the bottle back to Castle. Setting it back up on the shelf hanging from the showerhead, he found his body bar and a washcloth.

As they both set to scrubbing, the ridiculousness of their situation hit her. They were standing in her bathtub, naked, showering together, still in the middle of an argument, and despite the insistence of her traitorous body, they hadn't yet resorted to mauling each other to avoid the discussion that was brewing.

Finishing her feet, she straightened up to find him reaching awkwardly around for the spot between his shoulder blades. He could never do this at her place without his stupid fancy back scrubber.

"Turn around."

He squinted at her, questioned her motives, but did it anyway.

His shoulders rolled and stretched as she slid firm, slippery circles over his skin, all the while avoiding her usual favorite detour over the curve of his perfect ass.

So maybe she should have said they hadn't resorted to mauling each other _yet_.

When she trailed the loofah off to the side, rinsed it over his shoulder, he turned back to face her, rinsed himself under the stream of still-steaming water, then stepped to the side to let it hit her in full force.

He'd apparently tired of her avoidance of his earlier declaration. The water hit her at the same moment as his words.

"You know what I think? I think this place is your crutch. You keep it so if we have an argument, or if you get mad, or you need to cry or show some emotion that you still don't trust me with, you can escape here and shut me out."

He paused, as her shock at his gruffness trickled down through her, but after just a breath, he kept plowing through.

"Having this apartment lets you run away. It lets you keep me at a distance. It's your out. You don't really have to deal with me, with us, when things get tough, because you can come here." He stepped back in the path of the water, hung his washcloth over her shelf, dropped his arms by his sides.

"Half of this is my fault, because I've been letting you do it. Letting you walk away and stew by yourself, pout, have a good cry—but none of it in front of me. I've yelled and cried and gotten frustrated and had moments of self-doubt; I've apologized—all with you there. But you, you still haven't really let me in. Not for the hard parts."

She was reeling at this onslaught of candor. Wasn't this supposed to be her angry rant at him for being an idiot on the job? When had it turned into tear-your-girlfriend's-guts-out day?

"But you know what? I'm not going to accept it anymore. You want to be in this with me? You let me in. No more escaping. I'll bet you couldn't make it a month—maybe not even half that—without this security blanket." He gestured with one hand out toward the room.

The shock had distracted her momentarily, but now she could see this for what it was—war.

He was fighting dirty, pulling out all the stops, plucking at every thread of insecurity about commitment and nearly everything else she'd been forced to hash out with Burke since she and Rick had gotten together.

She'd been the one to bring up those issues with her therapist, trying so hard to overcome the weaknesses she perceived in herself from every prior relationship. And damn it if Rick hadn't picked up on the biggest elephant sitting in the middle of her living room.

She needed her safe haven away from him. Not because she thought she wanted to leave him someday—just because she needed the solitude to process. She remembered the conversation with her therapist. That was the day Burke had snuck a candid answer out of her—that no matter what ridiculous thing he did, or how furious she might be with him, she couldn't see herself leaving Rick. And she had justified to herself as much as to him why the apartment was a good thing—a refuge—a place that could facilitate her being more open with Rick, simply because she could also have time to herself.

But Burke kept asking her leading questions about successful relationships she'd witnessed (meaning her parents, the only successful one she'd ever seen, as the man well knew), whether the people in those relationships had had a physical hiding place.

Of course not. Her parents had lived in the same Manhattan apartment for their whole marriage. Her mom never ran to her grandparents' house. Her dad never stayed at work to avoid his family.

But when it came to her own life, her own situation, she hadn't been able to fathom it, giving up her own apartment. She saw it as losing some un-reclaimable part of herself.

She had never once moved in with a man.

But a phrase was always tickling her subconscious, a mantra playing over in her mind in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lanie's.

Rick wasn't just a man.

But this moment, naked in her shower after making her furious, was not the time to issue her a challenge.

"Really? You think I can't hack a real relationship? You think I need to hide from you? Does it look like I'm hiding right now?"

She watched Rick's expression turn from confrontational to predatory.

Good. He ought to want her.

She knew she must have painted quite the picture—hair plastered to her head, saturated tendrils trailing over her shoulders, skin flushed from the heat, cheeks flushed from anger, and all of her slick and dripping.

When she witnessed his pupils dilating right in front of her, blue eyes darkening almost to black, she felt all of that angst and venom shift, pulse, slither into her bones in shaking desire.

And then she was against him; warm, wet skin skimming over his, lips crushing, tongue surging in.

Her arms found his shoulders, clutched at his neck. His hands found her breasts, slid over them in forceful, determined possession.

She moaned into his mouth as she felt her nipples harden into his warm and wide palms.

He'd called her out, forced her to face all of her avoidance and evasion.

And damn if he wasn't absolutely right.

Didn't mean she had to be happy about it.

She bit down lightly on the tip of his tongue, sucked it further into her mouth, laced her fingers tightly into the short, wet hair just above the nape of his neck.

He was just as riled up as she was, and he was neither asking permission nor waiting for encouragement.

His hands tweaked her nipples, cupped and pressed and squeezed her soft flesh hard against her ribcage, forced a moan from the back of her throat. She might very well have his hands imprinted on her skin tomorrow.

Nearly forcing air from her lungs with the roughness of his grip, he dragged his fingers down her ribcage and spanned her waist.

As she took his lower lip between her teeth and closed down, he let out a little muffled yelp. She didn't let go, tugged that perfect, pink flesh into her mouth, giving back just as good as she got.

Yanking her middle hard against him, he gave her no choice in the matter of maintaining distance. She released his lip, swiped her tongue over it, as her hips curled toward him instinctively, seeking contact and pressure and him.

She forgot sometimes just how strong those arms were—sculpted for years to make sure he could measure up to the job of being her partner. He rarely showed off the results of his hours in the gym—was too secure in his masculinity to need blatant shows of machismo in her presence. And he certainly didn't manhandle her. Well, at least not until now.

Her knee rose of its own accord, met his hand as it slipped from her waist, let his grip guide it up and over the shelf of his hipbone.

Oh, and then he was pressing his thick, hard length against her, the energy crackling between them melding equal parts anger and arousal.

With the hand that wasn't clutching her thigh, he found her folds. When she couldn't contain the moan of urgency, he swallowed it, stole her breath, now pulled her lower lip between his teeth.

As two thick digits slid home, she almost toppled backwards. Thankfully he now had one arm wrapped around her just below the curve of her back, pressing her against him and keeping her upright.

She cried out in earnest as he curled his knuckles and held fast against her front wall with those seeking fingers.

There was no way she was going to stay upright while he was using every dirty trick to force pleasure upon her, lips wreaking havoc on—

"Oh God!"

-that spot behind her ear.

No more thinking. Only kissing. And maybe licking. Definitely biting.

The hard ridge and smooth curve of his collarbone were just so inspiring of worship, beaded with droplets of water, shifting with the movements of his chest and shoulder as he worked over her body.

When his hand withdrew from her, the shock of losing that intimate contact nearly buckled her knee.

He growled, low and urgent, directly into her ear as he reached down, wrapped his hands around her ass, tugged upward.

"Up, come on."

They were going to kill themselves. There was no way around it. She was going to climb up his body and they were going to slip and fall and die making love while standing in her cast-iron tub. And she didn't give a flying fuck. She was high on the adrenaline and the fury and the surging lust that simmered, ever-present between them.

She gave a little lurching leap and wrapped both legs around his waist, gripping him tightly between her thighs. Remarkably, his balance didn't falter. She didn't want to think about why he would be so good at catching her slippery, hot body as she slithered into place, right where she wanted him.

She had his insistent, ever-hardening, arousal trapped between them, and he inhaled sharply as she rolled her hips.

Their foreheads were pressed together, her head tipped down slightly seeking a look into his heavy-lidded eyes.

They didn't fight in bed. They didn't use sex to solve problems, to win arguments. Despite her penchant for verbally minimizing the depth of their intimacy—the meaning she found in their physical relationship—she knew in her heart of hearts that what she and Castle did together was to make love.

She knew because the first time it had happened, everything about sex with Rick was foreign. Not foreign in a bad way—just in a way that made her question exactly what she'd been doing with all those other men she'd been with over the years.

And she had gotten the impression that he felt the same—that first rain-drenched night, he'd had this dazed, disoriented, enamored look on his face as she had hovered over him on the floor of his office, sinking against his chest, completely sated and curling herself down into him. She had the clear memory of wishing she could just fuse with his warmth, meld into one body with his.

As she rose up now, poised to take him inside her in the midst of this maelstrom of anger and angst, she suddenly realized she couldn't let him think this was just her anger funneled into crazy shower sex.

She found his eyes, wouldn't let him look away.

"You've got one week."

He seemed to jerk out of the haze at her words.

"What?"

He looked completely aroused, and entirely confused. She teased her folds over his tip, making matters only that much worse for the distraction. Somehow, he ground out a few more words.

"You mean Valentine's Day?"

She was momentarily confused. He thought she was bringing up a Hallmark Holiday in the middle of their bout of angry shower sex? Okay, so it was about a week away. But no, not remotely.

"No, not Valentine's. You have a week to clear half the closet."

So even more confused… Time to clarify.

"If I move in, I expect the whole side opposite your suits, and one of the dressers."

His eyes widened in shock, but before he had a chance to vocalize it, she was taking him inside her.

"Ah… damn it, Kate."

He clutched at her hips, pulled them flush against his, babbled on incoherently.

"I don't—you're serious? You want to—"

His mouth opened, eyes closed, breath halted in his chest, as he assimilated the sensation she was cataloguing in contraposition. A smile curled deep inside her as she witnessed his inability to process thought, produce speech.

"Fuck, you feel amazing. God, how do you feel this amazing?"

His lids lifted with his words, revealing the rim of blue surrounding wide pupils, black with arousal.

"Did you just say you want to move into the loft?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

He thrust his hips up and into her, groaning low as the pinnacle of his stroke met with some resistance. Gravity was working for him, pushing him deeper than usual and forcing his extremely aroused flesh to make firm contact with her. The intense pressure deep inside her bordered on discomfort, but she found herself clamping down with every muscle to rise up and then relaxing to sink down and find that place again.

"No… problem."

She repeated the rise and fall, and as she reached the nadir, she felt him surge up and into her.

It was almost too much, the pleasure of it mingling with a twinge of sharpness. But it fit, somehow, with this moment, with this act of love and lust and acquiescence.

As she set up a rhythm, using all her coordination and every ounce of strength in her legs and hips and back and abs, she found herself craving the burn of all those muscles. It was a punishment for her overreaction.

She was strong, but no five-mile morning run could prepare her for this marathon of mating.

There was nothing to be done except keep going—go faster, rise higher, sink farther.

She found her adrenaline high, the one that usually didn't show up until mile three uphill. It kept her going, hoping he was getting as close as she was. And fuck, she was getting close.

Something about the exertion was making her want it so badly—that pinnacle of tension and strain and endorphins doping her up, her panting nearing hyperventilation, to the point that she actually felt her lips tingling.

Everything was too intense—she couldn't keep up this pace much longer, and she dropped her head to his shoulder, just trying to delay the inevitable exhaustion of her body.

He recognized her faltering rhythm, began to thrust in counterpoint, used his upper body to bolster her rise and fall against him.

When her teeth sank into the cord of muscle straining along the side of his neck, he latched on to that perfect spot again and flicked his tongue over the pulse pounding beneath her skin.

Her eyes were squeezed tight, arms clutching his shoulders, voice trying and failing miserably to hold in the high-pitched cries every time she bottomed out against him.

If she could just keep up this rhythm, keep herself centered, she could go.

And it might be the best orgasm of her life.

But she was fading. Every muscle was singing, telling her all the ways she was abusing, refusing to keep going.

When she thought she couldn't possibly rise one more time, he hauled her in tight against him, hit every nerve outside, inside, on the border in between, with three violent thrusts, and the universe aligned.

Every synapse fired, every muscle clenched, she felt the first flame of her release unfurl deep in her pelvis. Her eyes shot open as her internal muscles clutched his still-pumping flesh. Dangerous and dark, his eyes were locked on her face, as if absorbing the pleasure she knew was pulsing from every pore.

As the second wave of her own orgasm hit, he gave one last heaving thrust and bellowed into her neck, with a cry that was half curse and half her name. He was in so deep and pressed so tight that she could feel him pulsing inside her, in time with her own squeezing contractions.

Their pleasure fed back on itself, fed forward to one another. Her focus seemed suddenly razor sharp, when normally everything would be hazy and glowing. That mental clarity somehow slowed the speed of their crest, trapped her breath in her chest, until finally the last aftershock quieted.

They had experienced great climaxes together, but there had been few so well timed and well matched with exhaustion as this. She clung to him with her now-spent strength, out of affection, yes, but more urgently from a desire to avoid losing her tenuous, slippery hold.

Chest heaving, he placed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against her jawline.

"I love you."

She nodded into his cheek, still not quite able to master language.

A few wracking breaths later, he pulled back, coherent enough to get out a full, if teasing, sentence.

"Can we please have angry shower sex at my place next time, where there is not just one, but four walls for leverage?"

The giggle just erupted, irreverent and unrestrained against his neck.

"Not that the threat of impending doom didn't totally do it for me, but, you know, I'm not sure either of use will be able to walk tomorrow."

He loosened his grip on her thighs, let her unwrap her legs and test her ability to hold her own weight.

When she didn't immediately collapse, he smacked her on the ass playfully and hugged her tight against him to spin her into the stream of water, starting to cool a bit after so long.

The warm water loosened back muscles still tight from their endeavor, and she arched back, reveling in the giddy rush of endorphins.

"Your shower is about to be our only option."

His smile bloomed, melting any doubts about her impassioned decision.

"You were serious? You want to move in with me?"

She pulled him under the water with her, canted her body away from his so the spray could wash away the evidence of their love-making.

She had known for months that he wanted her there. She knew just as well that he was purposefully not asking—afraid she would shy away if he brought it up first. It was true that she had never moved in with a boyfriend, but it was also true that Rick was the first person she had ever been able to picture herself waking up with every morning, falling asleep beside every night.

"I'm tired of distance."

With a little brush of lips against his abused lower lip, she turned and reached down to turn the knobs, stop the water.

They toweled each other off in silence, taking time to be gentle with one another now.

He scrubbed at her hair, massaged her scalp through the soft terrycloth, kissed the crown of her still-damp head.

When she finally opened the door, releasing steam out to her bedroom, he palmed her hips and directed her toward her bed. At this point, she was fine with the lack of a detour to her dresser for clothes.

She tugged down the covers, completely content to be horizontal.

He climbed in after her, wrapped her up in his arms so she lay half-draped over his chest.

The circles he was ghosting into the small of her back were lulling her.

She started slightly when his voice pierced the comfortable silence.

"What was it, Kate?"

Her adrenaline must have worn off—she was struggling to pull herself out of her boneless, sated fog.

"Hmm?"

"Today. I mean, yes, I did something stupid at the scene, and Gates could have kicked me out of the precinct if the guy had cared, but that's not all that uncommon of an occurrence. There was something else, wasn't there?"

Fully awake now, mind racing over what to say and what to push down, she turned into his chest, pressed her lips to the warm skin over his heart, let his steady pulse center her. She could do this. She was tired of distance, wasn't she? But she couldn't meet his eyes.

"If it had been our guy—when you went into the water I couldn't tell what was happening at first."

She stopped there, hoping for courage or Rick's special brand of mind-reading.

"You thought I was in danger."

He was almost there—just hadn't put the last piece in place.

"He could have… hurt you."

Why couldn't she just tell him that the idea of watching a knife sinking into his flesh, seeing his life drain away, dropped her heart into her gut, sent her into a cold sweat, stripped away every piece of armor she had painstakingly layered over the wounds still lingering from the defining moment of her adult life.

And then it clicked. She knew, because his hand stopped circling, his arms clung a little tighter.

"The murder weapon—the hunting knife. I can't believe I didn't realize… I'm an idiot; I'm sorry."

And of course he would take all the blame onto himself, use pieces of his own heart to fill in every new hole her still-damaged psyche chose to reveal.

"You shouldn't apologize for not anticipating my neuroses, Castle."

She did look at him then. Saw the love and the rock-solid strength of his trust in them shining back in his eyes.

"What's yours is mine."

And that was what this all came down to. He had taken the leap long ago. She was always the one trailing behind, hesitating over every inch of ground they gained. As hard as she tried, the words wouldn't come—the ones she wanted to say about how much she wanted him, wanted forever.

"You don't have to give this place up, you know."

He was saving her again. Letting her off the hook—giving her a place to run. She hid behind her lashes again, embarrassed that he knew she would take the out.

"I know."

They passed half a dozen breaths in silence as she tried desperately to make the connection between the eloquent, vocal assertions of her heart and her ungraceful, silent lips.

Rising over him, stealing some boldness from the look he was sending her, she nudged at the corner of his mouth, tried to find better employment for her own mouth in action.

But her fear and her fury suddenly surged at the realization that she was falling into her same, tired trap of actions at the expense of words.

Enough.

She wanted more.

"But I think I've finally figured out that the only place I ought to be running is to you."

# * # * # * #

**A/N: Not sure if this lives up to the long wait and all my whining. Feel free to express your opinion on future installments. I can always come up with more scenarios in which Beckett is soaking wet… **

**And Carto, I hope you made it to the end, because I officially request a review in an altered state for this nearly 7,000-word epic of Angry Shower Smut. **

**I will be transitioning to a new Castle Archive, dedicated to this fandom. Please visit ExtraordinaryLines dot com to find my stories, including future chapters of "Kelpie." **

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie**


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